


Yin & Yang

by Ramsay_Boltons_Muse



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Dom/sub, F/M, Forced Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Masochism, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Praise Kink, Sadism, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramsay_Boltons_Muse/pseuds/Ramsay_Boltons_Muse
Summary: Just a tension/smut/angst ridden piece about J x The Reader. J goes looking for The Reader after losing her years ago, and surprise surprise there is some smut. This is what I did with my Tuesday night y’all. Hope someone out there enjoys this. I might do some more chapters if people do.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. Memories

You were having that dream again. The one where you’re 10 years old and it’s almost Christmas. The one where you find your family dead. 

It’s in an estate, a massive manor house you don’t know well, somewhere outside the Gotham city walls. You’re walking down the grand staircase barefoot, the elegant deep teak wood cold to the touch. Your eyes are caught by the two gigantic floor to ceiling windows framing the doorway at the bottom of the steps and the blizzard of white snow falling heavily on the great front lawn. 

But it’s not the snow that grabs your attention, not really. It’s the red that’s interspersed in its banks that grow heavier and heavier by the second. It’s like a painting, like mutilated polka dots, and you can see that the red is spilling out from bodies. From the bodies of the guards on patrol. 

And then it’s the staircase that draws your attention back in. A trickle of something wet in the corner of your eye. A tingle at the back of your neck when you’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is. And all at once you’re aware of what’s on the staircase, your snow-captive eyes having missed it before: dead people. 

Three bodies stretched out along the stairs, reaching, straining desperately toward the next step, their eyes open and in brutal anguish. You recognize one as a maid, another as a butler and the third as your great aunt, hideous, her mouth forming a post-mortem howl of terror. 

And the bodies continue, at the bottom of the steps. An older cousin, another maid, and you cry out as you see your beloved German Shepherd stabbed and lifeless beside the door, a small knife lodged deeply in his side. Adrenaline coursing through you, you run down the rest of the steps and throw your arms over his body, weeping. You lift your head up, tears blurring your vision to see more bodies to the right and left of you. 

You stand up and start running through the rooms, seeing aunts and uncles and cousins and even your grandparents, dead, dead, dead. You start calling out, your voice rasping and hopeless for your parents. You run faster and faster through the rooms past dead scullery maids and cooks and guards and your little cousin Timmy, who you just built a snowman with that afternoon. All of them, dead.

Finally you see them, and you start sobbing as the hope is stamped out of your heart violently. Your father is cradling your mother, as if to shelter her from whatever blows were coming. Their blood is wet and spilling out in a circle around them and as you kneel and crawl over to them, your hands and knees become coated with it. You reach out a hand to touch your mother’s face, a small bloody handprint left on her as you collapse next to them.

You jolt awake in bed, your heart rate racing. It always takes a moment to come out of these nightmares, and you try to steady your breathing, making note of where you are and grounding yourself in reality. It helps that Copper must have heard you call out in your sleep, and he jumps onto the bed and nuzzles you with his wet nose. You take a deep breath and run your fingers through his soft black and gold fur. 

“Hi boy. Don’t worry, I just had a bad dream.” Copper isn’t convinced and curls up close to you, warmth radiating off of him. 

_ It’s okay. It was just a dream.  _ You say to yourself. You look at the clock on your bedside table. 5:00am. You throw yourself back onto your pillow groaning, debating whether or not to try to fall back asleep, but you think better of it and get up. 

You clap your hands and your bedroom is immediately illuminated in a warm glow. You look around you at the familiar objects, stacks of books and notebooks strew across the room, further reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and you are perfectly safe. Your large bed, overflowing with countless pillows, an unfortunate obsession of yours, is empty of course except for a very comfortable looking German Shepherd snuggling into the covers. 

“Come on Copper.” You say with a gentle smile, and he hops down and trots out after you as you walk down the hall to the kitchen. Your parents had left you the family estate in the country after their tragic passing, but you couldn’t bear to live out alone in the middle of nowhere. Especially considering the last time you had been out in the country. 

You elected to buy a small but elegant apartment in the city, preferring the constant noise and knowledge that you were never alone to the emptiness of the family estate, which was carefully kept in mint condition by a caretaker and his family, though you never went out to visit it. You have no need for large spaces, tending not to have many friends or really let anyone in at all. It’s just Copper and you, and that’s fine.

You scratch him behind his ears before turning the coffee maker on. As you wait for your morning dose of caffeine, you sit at the kitchen island and look out through the massive windows overlooking Gotham, watching countless lights from other apartment buildings wink on one by one. You shiver in the cold, a light snow starting to fall outside. You’re really surprised you had the dream again, you can’t remember the last time you had it. Your thoughts start wandering back to that day.

It was so long ago now, that you imagine the details in it are probably not reality. Goodness knows, you couldn’t describe it to the Gotham City police when they finally showed up nearly a day later, having waited for the heavy blizzard to pass to get out to the house. You’re grateful that part of your memory is missing too, not wanting to remember what it must have been like, alone for a full day in a mansion of dead bodies.

When the police had reached you they asked a million questions, not understanding how you survived the slaughter. At first they assumed you had hidden yourself well, but the one part of that horrific incident you did remember proved otherwise. And it left the cops dumbfounded. You remember being in your room alone, lying on the ground and drawing something with such intense concentration, you nearly didn’t hear the door to your room open. 

All you remembered was that he was tall, and seemed young, couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than you. You couldn’t recall a single physical feature, only that he smelled of something very strong, like some sort of paint and gunpowder. You had slowly gotten to your knees and looked up at him. You remember being fascinated, though you didn’t know about what, and that he had knelt down and roughly grabbed the picture you had been drawing, staring at it intensely. You didn’t remember being afraid, but you could feel the terrible dark depth and breadth of evil wafting off of him. 

Needless to say, that didn’t help the police very much. They started looking for carpenters when you mentioned paint. They had been almost angry with you, the fact that you were the only survivor of a 40 person massacre and had even  _ seen _ one of the killers (they assumed it must have been a gang to murder that many people) and you couldn’t remember a single useful detail. There had been a kinder, older cop who had hushed them away, yelling at them that you were clearly traumatized. He had given you a blanket, and at least everyone left you alone for a while after that.

Your coffee’s ready. As you pour yourself a cup, you suddenly feel nauseous, without the faintest idea why. It’s like an odd unsettling twisting in your stomach, something like dread. The ominous foreboding seems to spread through you like waves, swirling and crashing inside you until it consumes you entirely. You shiver.

“Okay Copper, now I’m certain I’m going insane. First thing on the to-do list today is find a friend. Any person will do. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a dog.” Copper barks and wags his tail as though in agreement, and you manage a half smile, though the sinking feeling in your gut doesn’t go away. 

_ So no coffee. Maybe a shower then to cool off.  _ You think, walking to your bathroom.  _ The dream must have gotten me worse than usual.  _ You shake your head, again trying to remind yourself of realities. You’re in your twenties, you have a great job at a top tier financial firm (as a side note your stilettos do sound pretty fucking awesome on the marble floors in the office), you’re a badass independent woman who basically raised herself from age 10, your only friend is a dog…  _ okay stop listing realities _ . You smirk to yourself as you get in the shower.

Minutes later you’re out and quickly combing through your hair before throwing on a pair of black lace panties and an oversized Black Sabbath tee shirt, because fuck it, it’s Sunday, and you don’t need to impress anyone. The sun is coming through the big glass windows and lighting your apartment up in a warm, early morning glow. You start humming to yourself already feeling better after the shower, when you round the corner into the kitchen and notice the coffee is gone. 

**_Fuck._ **

You freeze. There is no doubt in your mind that someone is in your apartment. You curse yourself for ignoring the feeling before. You’re still debating where to run to, when one of the white swivel chairs where you like to read swivels around to face you. 

Who, or  _ what  _ more accurately, that is grinning at you through a malicious smirk that chills you to the bone is someone you’ve seen any number of times on the television.

The Joker is here, in your apartment.

Wearing his quintessential purple trench coat, suit and green vest, his hair a dyed green mess, he is an absolute enigma. His face is covered in white grease paint, making the black cavernous circles around his dark eyes even more terrifying. The color of his eyes are something blacker than black, the color at once pitch darkness and emitting a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadow and variation capable of portraying a vast array of sadistic emotion. 

He’s leaning forward in the chair that’s clearly much too small for his domineering broad-shouldered and tall body. From the look of him seated he must be at least 6’3. He’s holding the coffee cup in one hand haphazardly while the other dons a gun, lax in his hand. His smile is painted a viscerally bloody red, a color you have ingrained in your own memory all too well, and it sweeps up his defined cheekbones along his notorious scars to create a cheshire grin. 

The Joker casually swirls the gun in his hand, a clear warning for you not to do anything stupid, and throws his legs up onto the coffee table in front of him, crossing them comfortably and leaning back in the chair. 

“Nice of you to, uh, pour me a coffee sweetheart _ -ah _ .” He enunciates the word and flicks his tongue out over the wishbone scar splitting his lip. “Could have done with some eggs too, but _ -t _ we can’t have everything, now can we?” 

Compelled by lord only knows what force, you find your legs suddenly walking towards him. You want to scream at yourself to stop moving, but your feet pad toward the chair opposite of him. He watches you as you move with a near predatory glare that would make any sane person pick up and run the other direction. 

You reach the chair and sit down, crossing your legs. You have no idea where the confidence comes from, but your voice comes out strong.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

The Joker eyes you with amusement. Uncrossing his legs from the table, he sits forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“You, uh, **_invited_ ** me.” He looks you dead in your eyes and you feel unexpectedly exposed. You’ve been successful at keeping people at a distance, but the way The Joker is looking into your eyes it’s like he’s reading every tiny emotion, fear, and desire, some you may not even know yourself. You feel vulnerable, and you blink away, unable to hold the eye contact. You try to shake off the way he seemed to peel back your protective layers and look into what was underneath it all. 

“I most certainly did not.” 

You think you see a different emotion cross over his face, something like anger, but more sensitive, almost like heartbreak, but it moves so quickly that you don’t have a chance to catch what it is. The Joker takes a large swallow of the coffee before throwing the ceramic mug onto the ground, breaking it instantly and causing you to jump from the sudden noise. 

“Don’t argue with me doll.” His voice is cold and dangerous, and looking at the gun swinging lazily from his hand, you’re reminded of the reality of your current predicament. 

You steady yourself from his sudden outburst, taking a small breath, and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard Copper all this time. Your words come out biting and vicious, surprising even yourself. 

“What have you done with my dog?” You nearly snarl at him. 

The Joker raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, doing nothing to calm the fears that start swirling inside of you, flashes of your lost childhood pet invading your mind.

“Oh, you’re a  _ feisty _ little thing aren’t ya,  **bunny** .” You seethe as he uses the pet name. “I was hoping you, uh, wouldn’t disappoint _ -ah _ .”

“Where’s my dog?” You say again, adamant. “What have you done with my dog!” Your voice raises, bordering on a yell, and the barrel of the gun is against your forehead faster than you can blink. 

“Okay, sweetheart _ -ah _ , let’s get some things straight _ -ah _ . You’re not _ -t _ in control here, so let’s get that into your little head  **nice and clear** .” He drawls the last couple of words out in a voice that is deeply dark and makes you think of  _ the big bad wolf _ , a shiver moving down your spine. 

“You get to keep being alive by the sheer grace of, well,  **_me_ ** . So you’d better start speaking with some respect _ -ah _ . And I mean let’s really use your manners, doll, let’s remember to say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you sir’.” The Joker is smiling wickedly at you, his purple gloved hand pressing the barrel of the gun into your skull.

Your lips curl into a defiant scowl, your eyes glaring at him.

“No.” 

The blow across your face shocks you, knocking you out of your chair and onto the floor and leaving your head ringing. Without a moment to recover, he’s on top of you, the force of his powerful build crushing you as his free hand encircles your neck, squeezing. 

“Bad girl.” He tsks. “And after I’ve been so  _ patient _ with you.” You start gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying in vain to pull him off of you. He’s so close now that you feel scorched by the heat radiating off of him, his muscles flexing as he all too easily overpowers you. 

Your senses are invaded by the  _ smell _ of him, like...paint...and...gunpowder. Your hands release his forearm and you stop struggling, memories flooding back like a sink that has been sealed shut for years suddenly turned onto full intensity. The images come flashing back so erratically and powerfully, you can’t even process them.

The manor house your family had rented out for the holidays, large enough to host your entire family, staff and guards for a whole week. How you had staked out in your bedroom when none of your cousins wanted to play with you, not after you had suggested they make anatomically correct snowmen, and they wouldn’t stop calling you ‘weird girl’. 

That’s where he had found you, in your bedroom, with a rather unnatural assortment of items around you. Several barbie dolls you had stolen from a younger cousin were stripped naked and tied up in intricate knots hanging from furniture, while others were simply cut up into pieces and scattered around the room. There was a large history book on medieval torture open to your right and _ A Clockwork Orange  _ to your left. And there you were, wearing a pretty blue and white flowered dress, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear and drawing a picture of a mass murder with colored pencils. 

The Joker releases the hold on your neck as he watched the series of memories flash across your eyes, his gaze trained on you intensely. He stands up and watches you as you slowly pull yourself to a seated position, the gaps in your memories filling in all at once. It;s all clear then. 

A young Joker standing in your doorway, face painted and smelling like greasepaint and gunpowder, smiling wickedly and brandishing a blood soaked knife as he kicked open the door. 

Your eyes narrow and you throw yourself onto your feet, running at him full force as you feel the weight of realization that your family’s murderer is standing in front of you. You don’t know what you expected to do when you reached him, your hands balling into fists, but The Joker easily catches your wrists with a pressure you can't break, backing you up against the glass windows. 

“Memories coming back doll?” His voice is gravely and dominant, but there’s a softer edge buried somewhere deeper in it. Your eyes fill with tears and your voice comes out in choked sobs.

“You killed my family!” 

His voice is hard as steel when he answers you, leaning closer into you. “Yes.” 

“Why!” You don’t know what to think, the memories and emotions overloading you to the point where nothing makes sense anymore. 

The Joker smiles at you, and you’re reminded that the person in front of you is a psychopath, incapable of empathy, who kills people just because he wants to. 

“Why? Why!” The Joker lets out a hyena cackling laugh, throwing his head back before wrapping his hand around your neck, his thumb pressing into your jaw. “The same reason anyone does anything sweetheart. I did it for fun _ -ah _ .”

“You’re sick.” You blurt out, your tears drying up and replacing with anger.

“Well if I’m sick,” The Joker raises his eyebrows at you knowingly, “then you’re, uh, sick too.” He laughs loudly and maniacally, causing you to jump. “Why so serious _ -ah _ ?” He says brandishing the word. “It’s much too heavy in this room, doll. Whadya say we have a laugh _ -ah _ ?”

You look at him disgustingly, and you’re made aware of a knife pressing gently into your side, sliding up over your t-shirt until it reaches your mouth, the steel cold against your lips, pressing lightly. 

“What is there to laugh about?” You breathe out, heart rate increasing at the knife that could so easily cut into you. 

“Well, uh” The Joker leans into your neck and you feel goosebumps break out over your skin. His lips ghost your neck, and you’re aghast that you feel a little ball of warmth move through you as the corded knots of his scars tickle your neck. “I think it’s funny, bunny, that you  **_despise_ ** me at the same time you desperately  **_need_ ** me.”

“What are you talking about?” You struggle against him, but the hand around your neck only presses harder while his other moves to grab your hip bone hard enough to leave a bruise, caging you in place against the windowed wall. Fear courses through you and you glance sideways through the glass and remember just how high above the city you are. If he pushed hard enough, he could easily break the glass and send you falling to your death.

“Oh,  **_please_ ** , babygirl. I knew it the second I saw you. You’re just a little masochist, aren't ya?” 

You thrash your body against him, but the more he asserts his power over you, the more you can’t help the tingling feeling spread through you. You should feel disgusted, sickened, that the man who killed your entire family is touching you this way. 

But you don’t. The horrid truth is, he’s right. You want him to take you. You need it. All at once, you stop struggling against him, defeated. 

He releases you and pats your cheek none too gently. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

The Joker walks behind the counter and picks something up, carrying over the large bundle and depositing it on one of the chairs. You realize it’s Copper and run over to him, crouching down and running your hands through his fur until you feel a heartbeat. 

“He’s alive.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. 

“Just knocked out dollface. I don’t, uh, like to be disturbed _ -ah _ .” 

You stand and walk toward The Joker, needing to ask him the question that’s been on your mind for years now. 

“Why didn’t you kill me that day?” 

The Joker grins and saunters over to you, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he reaches you.

“Because _ -ah _ ,” He grabs your arms, pressing into your skin roughly with a force that’s sure to leave bruises. “You’re  _ special _ . And you’re  **mine** .” The word is definitive, unquestionable, and you’re left wondering if you’re the only one of The Joker’s victims he’s let live. 

“It took me a long time to find you. But now that I have, bunny, you won’t be going anywhere.” 

Your face softens at that, and you realize it’s because no one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you now. Not even your parents, who you are remembering more and more clearly as cold and almost fearful of you, desperate for you to ‘just be normal’. 

No one has looked at you the way he is now, and you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, nevermind all the warning bells going off in your head that this is likely the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, that this is  **_The_ ** **Joker** **_._ **

But you can’t help it, you’re smiling up at him, letting all the overthinking go and basking in this momentary truth that someone wants the actual you. He’s staring into your eyes with a delightful possessiveness as he pulls you to him and plants a row of kisses and bites on your neck, exposed for him in a little show of submission, causing him to growl hungrily against you. 

“And, uh, dollface,” he whispers in your ear, “You can call me J.”

Your body jolts as he lands a much harsher bite closer to your collarbone, causing you to emit a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl. 

“J?” 

He hums against your skin, sending warm vibrations through you.

“What will you call me?”

You feel him break into a smile against your skin, drawing away from his attack on your neck to stare at you, his jet black eyes a myriad of sadistic carnal desires. You feel the warmth spread through your core as he devours you with his gaze alone. His answer is simple.

“ **Mine** .”


	2. Some Fucked Up Prince Charming

You’re in your office, tapping the heels of your black pumps against the hardwood floors, lost in thought again about, well,  _ who else _ .

It’s been over a week since The Joker was in your apartment, having left rather abruptly with a sharp ‘I’ll be in  **touch** _ -ah _ ’ before disappearing so quickly through your door that you were left wondering if it had all been some sick dream. But catching a glance of yourself in the windows had proved definitively otherwise, a trail of red and white greasepaint marking you from jaw to collarbone. 

You’ve tried to work through what happened countless times since that Sunday morning, but to no avail. There’s just no logical explanation for why you would  _ want _ (or as J would likely favor,  _ need _ ) the person responsible for your family’s murder. 

_ There’s obviously something wrong with me. _ You sigh.  _ I could use a therapist.  _ You find yourself shaking your head and laughing as you consider how that would go. 

\--

**You:** Hi, my name’s [Y/N] and I’m a masochist. I’m catching feelings for the man who murdered my entire family.

**Therapist:** Oh? Well, let’s talk about that for a minute. Can you tell me more about this man?

**You:** Sure. He’s, well, he’s, um, **_evil_**. And he’s got these crazy scars that most people find terrifying, but I, for some godforsaken reason, find them enchanting. He wears white and black and red greasepaint all over his face and he’s got a custom purple and green suit. And he’s on the news a lot.

**Therapist:** It sounds like you’re describing The Joker. Is this a fantasy of yours? The Joker is not known to fraternize with any  _ law abiding  _ citizens such as yourself.

_ *A large boom as a wall in the therapist’s office is blown apart and J steps through, knives in both hands.* _

**The Joker:** Sorry to, uh, disappoint _ -ah _ . But I’m not **_-t_ ** a fantasy. And you, doll, should know better than to talk to anyone about me _ -ah _ .” 

_ *J proceeds to kill the therapist, and do god knows what to you.* _

\--

_ That sounds about right. _ You think. Also, on second thought, maybe your imaginary therapist is right. Maybe he is a fantasy. It’s been over a week, and there’s not been a word from him. 

You were tired on Sunday, it was early in the morning, you had just woken up from a nightmare… Did it even happen? Is he even real? Are you losing your mind?

The little button on your phone blinks red and you sigh, picking up the receiver. 

“Yes, Marjorie, what is it?” 

The crisp voice of your earnest young secretary comes through the line. 

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, [Y/N], but it’s Nathan asking to see you. I tried to explain that your diary is full and he’ll have to make an appointment -- but he is rather insistent.” You can hear the annoyance in her voice, and it’s one you share. Both you and Marjorie can’t stand the man.

“It’s okay, Marjorie, thanks for trying. Just send him in.” You groan, the last thing you want to deal with right now is Nathan’s advances. He’s been trying to take you out since you started working at the firm. He’s one of those wealthy, playboy types, the kind that gets everything he ever wants in life thanks to his good looks and his family’s impossible riches. You aren’t charmed though. Far from it.

“[Y/N]?” He opens the door, and then knocks on it, already walking inside and closing it behind him before you answer. It’s something you can’t stand. 

“You’re looking fine today.” Nathan paces over to your desk as you stand and smooth out the little black dress that hugs your body. You’re wearing red lipstick, and your hair is tucked behind your shoulders, trailing down your back in soft waves. He  _ is  _ right, you think, you do look quite nice today, but he shouldn't be saying it. 

You would love to tell him off, ask him to go bother some other girl who thinks something of his money and looks, but you can’t. Nathan is your equal in seniority, but really he’s above you as his father owns the entire firm. You can’t tell him off, much as you might like to.

“Thank you.” You say somewhat stiffly. 

Something catches your eye, and you see it’s your phone vibrating.  _ Unknown Number.  _ One of the few things your parents did bother to teach you was not to answer calls from unknown numbers. If it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail. Besides, you have to deal with Nathan now.

As he reaches your desk, he doesn’t stop but walks all the way around it until he’s standing right next to you. He leans back against the desk, hovering in an almost seated position and crossing his arms.

“Did you give any thought to that lunch I suggested yesterday?”

Your voice is steel as you reply.

“Nathan, again, thank you. But I’m really not interested.”

He touches your arm, lightly at first, but when you instinctively pull away, his grip tightens and he stands fully, towering over you.

“How long are we going to play at this little game, [Y/N]?” His voice has a hard edge to it, filled with malice and desire, all his charm dissipating. “I know you must want me under that hard shell.” 

Out of the corner of your eye you see your phone buzzing again.  _ Unknown Number.  _ It stops suddenly, before starting right back up again. But Nathan brings your attention back to him as his hand moves to grab your chin, jerking it to face him. It’s never gone this far before–– the most he’s done is let his hand linger a little too long on your thigh after giving it a pat for a ‘good job’ at a stakeholder meeting.

“Something distracting you?” He hisses through his teeth. He’s disgusting to you. The smell of his expensive cologne, his fashionable suit and that perfect haircut doing nothing to hide how foul he is underneath. 

In a swift movement, your hand wraps around his wrist and jerks it away from you.

“Don’t touch me, please.” You hate that you’re saying “please”, but you know why you are. It doesn’t matter how good a job you’ve done over the past two years, Nathan could have you fired without a moment’s notice.

“Oh, you’re just asking for it aren’t you?” You’re backing away from him, trying to round your way past the desk to get to your office door. You don’t like where this seems to be heading. Your phone starts vibrating again. 

Nathan is matching your steps as you slowly back up, but then he’s jumped onto you, closing the gap and covering your mouth before you can scream. You struggle, but he’s much bigger than you, and he easily turns you around so your back is to him, one hand clamped down over your mouth while the other gets your arms pinned behind your back, holding you in place. You can feel his rough stubble against your neck as he whispers in your ear.

“You see, I thought you were just a little prude, [Y/N], really I did. You had me so fooled. But then, I heard Marjorie mention you had met some mystery man, hmm? You fuck him, you little slut?” He yanks your arms back, eliciting a cry from you that’s muffled by his hand over your mouth. “There’s not a girl in this goddamn city that I can’t have, [Y/N], no matter what the pedigree. I’m done being patient with you.” 

Another silenced scream escapes your lips as he pushes you roughly onto the desk, removing his hand from your mouth in favor of a gag he quickly secures around your head. He uses his freed hand to reach under your dress and rip your pantyhose into shreds. Tears start streaming down your face and all you can do is pray _ , pray _ , that Marjorie barges in for some work emergency. But you know she never will, she’s been trained to never disturb your meetings. 

“I’m going to fuck you into the floor like the whore you are. You won’t be forgetting your place after today, slut. You can count on that.” Your body jerks sharply as something pinches into the back of your neck. You think it might be a needle.

Suddenly you hear screaming and a loud bang followed by the sound of guns firing round after round. At first, the sound is far off, but it starts getting louder and louder. Nathan’s standing still, listening, as unsure as you as to what’s going on. It wouldn’t make any sense for armed robbers to come here when the vast sum of the company’s money would be at the banks. 

In the momentary confusion, you try to kick Nathan’s legs and duck away from him, but he easily sidesteps your attempted kick and pushes your neck roughly into the desk, making your head ring. You’re flat against the desk now, your head turned toward your right to see a sideways angle of the door to your office, becoming further distorted as you start to feel dizzy.

“You stay down, bitch. I’m not done with you yet.”

Without warning, the door to your office is kicked down in a huff of thick smoke, the smell of explosives and gunpowder invading the room all at once. You see a silhouette in the doorway, but you can’t make out any details through the smoldering air. 

The shadow is striding forward, sharpening into an image of a frightfully imposing figure, expansive shoulders sloping to form the sharpened points of a structured trench coat. One large hand holds a Glock 17 while the other grips an elegantly savage, blood-stained knife. You find yourself petrified by the commanding presence that marches through the haze with near terrorizing power. 

That is, until the devilish eyes and cheshire smile break through the cloud of smoke., and that low gravely voice, thick with rage, penetrates your eardrums. 

“I, uh,  **_disagree_ ** _. _ ”

You hear two clicks of a gun and Nathan screams in agony, the pressure holding your arms gone. You bolt away from the desk, running to the opposite corner of the room, needing to get away as far away from that fucking bastard as possible. The thought of what he nearly did to you keeps the tears flowing from your eyes. Your hands free, you untie the gag from your mouth, your whole body shaking.

Unable to stand, you collapse onto the ground, wedging yourself into the corner and drawing your knees to your chest. Across the room, you can see Nathan bleeding profusely from his kneecaps. 

“Take him.” You hear the low, husky edge of that unmistakable voice, the image of him becoming increasingly blurry through your tear stained eyes. You’re feeling light headed as you squint your eyes in an attempt to sharpen your vision, barely making out the image of two masked men lifting an unconscious Nathan and removing him from the room.

Then all at once you’re invaded by a heat wave, and he’s crouching in front of you, leather gloved hands roughly smoothing over your face and then up and down your arms, kneading the flesh. You’re reeling, nearly unable to keep your head up, as your body loses more control.  _ Did Nathan inject me with something? _

“Hey, hey.” Amidst the residual gunshots outside the room, the screams and sounds of sirens, you are somehow able to focus on his voice as if it’s the clearest sound in the world. “You okay doll?” He’s turning your head left and right gently, before apparently finding what he was looking for. He inhales sharply, growling with a deep-seated anger.

“J?” You manage. The world is becoming increasingly fuzzy as you fight to keep your eyes from closing. You’re unable to focus on anything, seeing red and white and black and purple merge and come apart in front of you, nausea bubbling up inside you. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know, babygirl, I know.” J pulls you to standing, and you’re barely aware that his body is the only thing keeping you upright. “How much did he hit-cha with sweetcheeks?” It’s not a real question and he doesn’t expect you to answer–– you’re clearly incapacitated, your body slumping against his as you lose all control of your muscles. He must realize this too, as he scoops you up in his arms before striding out of the room as your vision goes black.

***

You’re dreaming now. It’s a light dream, a good dream, where you feel warm inside. J sweeping you up and keeping you safe, rescuing you from the bad guys. It’s like he’s Prince Charming from the story books you read as a child, except, just like in those books, Prince Charming had been colored over with markers to give him a scary face, weapons, and much cooler looking clothes. Ever since first seeing J, little slips of memories have been coming back to you, even in dreams. Right now you’re recalling how the same headstrong child who had distorted Prince Charming had also transformed Cinderella so that she wasn’t a blonde haired, one-dimensional poster ad for objectification any longer. You think you remember giving her black hair and heavy eye liner. You’re still smiling as your eyes open and you wake up. 

But you don’t stay smiling for long.

You’re tied to an uncomfortable metal chair in a room you’ve never been in before, your arms bound behind your back and each of your ankles tied to a chair leg. It’s dirty, disheveled, and dimly lit, but you can make out a despondent looking mattress tossed haphazardly in a corner with a single, forlorn pillow and a comforter thrown over it. There’s a lone dresser slumping to its right, clothes spilling out over the half closed drawers including something that definitely looks like a nurse’s uniform. You also see piles of old books on the floor, making out some Nietzsche, Freud and Dostoevsky, along with a copy of The Catcher in the Rye that looks so worn you imagine it would break apart the next time someone so much as opened it. There’s a collection of weapons dotting the floor like a child’s toys he hasn’t put away, and the unmistakable purple trench hanging from a single hook next to a large window, moonlight spilling in.  _ How long have I been unconscious for?  _

And then you see him, sitting in a chair against the wall opposite you. He’s leaning back, the chair’s front two legs raised off the ground. He’s perfectly balanced in what would otherwise look precarious, one foot resting over the thigh of his other leg, his arms crossed across his chest, his expression unreadable. You didn’t see him at first because of how perfectly still he’s sitting in the shadow, his silently formidable presence almost a statue, but a blink of his obsidian eyes and glint of steel as he turns a knife around and around in his hand proves otherwise. 

You want to feel safe and warm at seeing him, you want to smile. Didn’t he just rescue you, like some kind of fucked up prince charming? But you don’t feel warm, or safe, or smile. Because the way he is looking at you is downright terrifying. He could kill you.

“J?” You sound brittle, taking on an intonation like a child deciding whether or not to cry after a fall. 

He rocks the chair back and forth, the sound putting you further on edge as he teeters dangerously, the chair groaning with the effort of supporting his lanky body at the irregular angle. His voice comes out of the shadows with a dangerously dark lilt.

“You didn’t answer my calls _ -ah _ .” 

_ Fuck.  _ The Unknown Number.

“I’m sorry, J.” The words rush out as you hurry to explain. “I didn’t know it was you, I --” In one swift movement, he’s on his feet, throwing the chair to the side of him, the wood making a loud cracking sound as it topples to the floor.

You’ve never seen anyone move so fast, and he’s upon you in a second, grabbing your head with his leather-clad hands and clamping your jaw shut. 

“I don’t want excuses _ -ah _ .” His voice is rough, his stare boring into you, ebony eyes all consuming as his pupils dilate to the point that all you can see is an utterly wicked jet-black. “Who do you think was calling you,  **_bunny_ ** ? A telemarketer? So desperate to, uh, sell you  _ something good _ he called ya  **four times** _ -ah _ **?** ” He cackles in your face and you jump, startled, unsure what he’s finding so funny. 

“I, I--” You try to get out that even if you had tried to pick up, you couldn’t have, that Nathan was holding you down. But you know that J already knows that. That he doesn’t care. That for him, there can be no excuses for not responding to his beck and call immediately, without question or protest. 

“You see what happens when you’re not a _good girl_? When you don’t **listen**. All I wanted to do was take you out for lunch _-ah_.” Somehow you find that unlikely, especially considering how he smirks to himself at the word. 

“You didn’t call me for over a week.” Your confidence is back, ill advised as it is. “I started to think you didn’t exist. That it was all in my --” You scream as J slices your cheek with the knife you forgot he was holding, horrified as you feel wetness drip down your face. You can tell the blade only grazed the surface, but it stings terribly and your eyes well up. J finishes your sentence for you, his voice roaring with laughter. 

“ _ In your  _ **_head_ ** ? Sweetheart, I don’t think you, uh, got the message _ -ah  _ last time.” He pulls his gloves off and throws them down, the leather making a smacking sound from the force as they hit the floor. You get the first look at his bare skin, and it’s tawny and riddled with paint stains and scars, his nails long and broken. 

He rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt up, revealing sinewy muscles rippling along his forearms before crouching down in front of you. He runs a paint speckled hand through his tousled hair, pushing the dyed-green mop away from his face and raising his predacious eyes to yours.

“You’re mine, dollface.  **_Mine_ ** -ah.” He enunciates the word, the sound thick with possession. “And that means that the only thing _ -ah _ you need to worry your pretty little head about” He pats your head roughly, before roping your hair into a bundle around his hand “is doing what I say, when I say it **_-t_ ** . Is that clear enough for you,  _ bunny _ ? Capiche?” He yanks your hair, making you cry out. 

When you don’t answer right away, the knife is at your mouth, dangerously close to your skin and threatening a far more serious cut this time. 

“Use your words _ -ah _ .” The steel is cold against your skin, so razor-sharp you’re afraid that moving your lips at all will result in an incision. You answer him in a whisper, your entire body shaking.

“Yes, J.”

J leans over you, his other hand wrapping around your neck and pressing firmly against your carotid artery. 

“‘ _Yes,_ **_Sir_** **.** ’ Unfortunately for you sweetheart, you clearly need to be trained _-ah_.” You swallow fearfully, and your heart rate quickens as a sadistic grin spreads slowly across his face, never quite reaching his eyes. The pools of black are devoid of any human character, and seem to only become more opaque like a Great White’s eyes. 

“Whadya say we start now? Oh you agree, well, good _ -ah _ .” You haven’t said anything of course, you can scarcely breathe with his hand cutting off your air supply. For a moment, your body washes over in relief as both his hands are withdrawn from you, the knife hastily cutting through the bindings tethering you to the chair, your arms still tied behind your back. 

J walks behind you, and with an elated sigh, he tips the chair over, sending you falling to the floor, your shoulder saving your face from hitting the ground full force. You try to pull yourself into a seated position without the use of your arms, but J is faster than you, seizing a bundle of your hair and tugging you onto your knees while you hiss in pain. 

“Sh, sh, sh.” His voice is anything but soothing as his rough hands stroke your face, before lightly slapping it. You hate him right now. The dreamy fantasies you had conjured up in your head are being stripped away with the reality of the sadistic psychopath in front of you. But you knew this already, didn’t you? And you still wanted him. Still asked for this in every thought you’d had about him since last Sunday.

“Look at me.” J’s circling you and you keep your eyes on the ground as you watch his large dress shoes and patchwork socks pace around you in heavy steps. You can feel his eyes pressing into your body, examining you, but you can’t look at him as tears prick at your eyes. The shoes stop in front of you and everything is silent, before --

“Look at me!” You jolt, the voice coming from his body not seeming to belong to J anymore, but to something  _ inhuman _ , something from the depths of Hell. The sound chills you to the bone, loud and absolutely sinister, and you start shivering uncontrollably as you raise your eyes slowly.

Petrified, your eyes meekly inch up his body. Starting at the shoes in front of you, planted authoritatively in the ground, you trail your gaze up the purple pinstriped slacks, along the sturdy legs to his belt, below which the fabric is pulled taut by a noticeably sizable bulge. You swallow and continue to glide your eyes upward past the green vest, dress shirt and suspenders, making note of the flexed muscles of his arms, one brandishing that tell-tale knife, until you reach his neck, glimpsing the tanned skin from where he must have loosened his tie. You almost aren’t brave enough, but you force yourself to look at his face, and it’s as utterly terrifying as you feared.

He’s towering above you, looking down at you with a dark and hooded gaze that has abandoned anything remotely human in place of empty caverns of malevolence. His gaze is piercing, voracious and  _ bloodthirsty _ , a villainous smirk tugging one side of his mouth into a wicked sneer. The red greasepaint is highlighting every groove and bump of his corded scars in shadows made ghostly from the full moon’s alabaster brightness spilling in from the window. You shiver as you realize it’s open, a gust of wind blowing inside with a low howl and rustling the unkempt green strands of his hair. 

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps as the air dances over your exposed legs and arms almost eagerly. It’s as if J is drawing all the chaotic energy to him, in through the window and swirling all around you. 

J bends down and pulls you to your feet without a word, staring into your eyes that are alight with sheer terror. He spins you around, cutting through the rope binding your wrists together, before bringing them forward in front of you. The muscles ache from being kept tied up in the same position for so long, but you stop yourself from groaning, too afraid to make a sound. 

J looks into your eyes again, that same malicious smirk painted on his face, before reaching up and pulling something down from the ceiling. You don’t resist as he lifts your arms up and clamps some kind of metal cuff around each wrist, before disappearing behind you to return with two metal cuffs for your ankles connected with a long bar. He fastens them onto you, your legs now forced apart in place. 

Your heart is beating out of your chest as J comes to stand in front of you, looking you over with a wolf like gaze, before whipping his knife out and cutting straight through your dress, the chill air meeting your skin like a thousand needles as the dress falls away, leaving you in only your black lace lingerie.

“ _ Mmm _ .” J hums, devouring you with his eyes. “This is going to be  **fun** **_-_ ** _ ah _ .”

*****


End file.
